


The Exactitude of Service

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Authority Figures, Blow Jobs, Boot Worship, M/M, Masochism, Slapping, Workplace Sex, authority kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-09 11:56:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3248759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the guidance of M. Thierry, who takes full advantage of Javert's eagerness to serve, Javert proceeds to rise quickly through the ranks of Toulon, and then, of the police, and wins the patronage of powerful men. There is only one superior who refuses to take advantage of his service.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. M. Thierry

He has not been long in Toulon. The uniform is still strange and new on his body. He takes great pride in its cleanliness and the sharp folds. If it still feels scratchy and harsh against his skin, even better. It will remind him that such a uniform was not meant for him, that it was only by the goodwill of M. Thierry that he was given this post, and that with every single breath he takes in this uniform, he will have to prove himself better than he beasts he has been chosen to guard.

It is a strange place, Toulon. There are those with the red or the green cap, the ones who have turned their back on society, forever apart. There are they: guards, keeping these beasts carefully away from society, for the protection of law-abiding citizens. And yet, the walls of Toulon keep both of them inside, and apart.

Toulon is a world of its own, but its rules and regulations are welcome to Javert. He fits in easily enough. He listens. He reads. He learns the rules and the laws by heart, and when he realizes that there are other rules as well that govern this world of stern-faced men guarding the most dangerous of all the beasts that wander the earth, he is quick to show his eagerness to learn these rules as well and prove himself an eager student.

That is how he comes to be on his knees, with M. Thierry's trousers open and his hand in his hair, and M. Thierry's prick in his mouth.

He is wearing the uniform M. Thierry gave him, he tells himself, and earning the coins in his pocket through the position M. Thierry assigned him. He has risen from the filth that fills the galleys through the goodwill of M. Thierry; he might, if he proves his eagerness, rise to adjutant-guard, perhaps rise even higher. There are rules and laws in this place, and M. Thierry is kind enough to teach them all, and if M. Thierry is a man with the needs of a man, there is no reason why such a man should go and find a prostitute and pay for obscene services with his coin when Javert has reason to be grateful to him, and should be grateful to assist him in any way, no matter how small.

It is not so distasteful. He has never had a cock in his mouth, although he knew, growing up, that this was one way to earn his coin. He did not choose that road; and this is quite a different thing: an inferior rendering a service to his superior. It is as simple as that. This is no filthy transaction of lust, paid for with coin; M. Thierry has given his patronage, and Javert gives his obedience. The laws of Toulon are different to the outside world, but even here, a man of power is due respect, and that, Javert thinks dimly as he carefully curls his tongue around the warm cock that is strangely heavy on his tongue, that is not so bad a thing to learn. It is a valuable lesson: how to show his respect, how to serve.

M. Thierry is not a patient man, but he is patient enough in this, guiding Javert with his hands and with commands that are breathier than the commands Javert is used to. But it is good; Javert is making progress, M. Thierry is pleased, and that is not so distasteful at all. Duty, Javert reminds himself, carefully sucking the bitter droplets from the tip. Respect, he tells himself as that heavy cock twitches in his mouth and fills him with strangely warm, thick fluid. Obedience. He draws back and swallows, then tucks M. Thierry's prick back inside, resolutely ignoring the unprofessional heat that has been kindled between his own legs as he closes M. Thierry's trousers, hides his soft prick once more behind the uniform, although he can still taste it on his tongue, the bitter salt of his spend, the hint of sweat and piss and unwashed skin.

But there, it is done. M. Thierry is pleased and tells him so, strokes his cheek once, and Javert feels strangely unsettled all of a sudden by the unexpected affection. Pride is a vice, he tells himself as he slowly rises, but even though they go on about their work after this, a hint of that pride remains lodged in his chest, and he is nearly relieved when M. Thierry allows him to prove his eagerness to do his duty again a few weeks later.


	2. M. le Commissaire des chiourmes

Javert has come to the attention of the Commissaire. Once more, he tells himself that the small ball of heat lodged firmly in his chest is not pride, and if it is, then it is simply pride in work well done. He tries to be irreproachable, and he succeeds. He knows his superiors esteem him. He works hard, each and every day, aware of how far he has come – aware, also, of how far he might go. 

Now, he stands before the Commissaire, an impressive man, and Javert, who has come very far, still feels the instinctual awe he felt the morning he first saw this man who governs the bagne. There is no reason for a simple guard to ever come to the attention of the Commissaire. Most will never come to stand before him, here in his office, where the gleaming wood and the tapestries and the paintings on the wall make him feel how very unlikely it is that he, Javert, has been summoned by this man who looks at him with idle curiosity: this guard who despite his youth has been suggested for a promotion once more. There is a letter in the Commissaire's hand, and Javert thinks with awed gratitude of M. Thierry, who must have brought him to his attention.

Javert manages to answer when the Commissaire asks questions. His voice does not tremble; he hopes he does not flush with nerves, but the years among the convicts have hardened him. If he can show no nerves when a convict tries to attack him, then certainly he will manage to answer the Commissaire's questions without making a fool of himself. Javert tells himself to think of M. Thierry, who gave him this opportunity; to fail now would be to shame the man to whom he owes so much.

At last, the Commissaire seems satisfied. He asks no further questions. But Javert is not dismissed. There is a sudden, strange tension in the air, and Javert starts to feel nervous again – has he failed? Has he said something wrong? Will Dupont be promoted instead? But then the Commissaire moves his chair back a little, and gestures for him to come closer. 

No word is spoken. When Javert goes to his knees, it is a question; when M. le Commissaire opens his trousers and frees his prick – not hard yet, Javert notes, his throat suddenly dry, not as thick as M. Thierry's prick, but owed his attention and service all the same – it is a relief to be given an order.

He is eager. It is an honor to serve M. le Commissaire; he tells himself this even as he begins to take him into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks, working with as much care as he can.

The act and the sensations of it are familiar: to kneel on the hard floor, to feel a hand in his hair – the Commissaire is very gentle, and dimly, Javert thinks that of course there is little need to hold him in place. He would not abandon his post before his duty is done, but it is good to feel it all the same. Perhaps it is not quite affection – but it is appreciation that makes the Commissaire trail his hand through his hair, that powerful hand that bears rings of gold and rules over the lives of men with its signature. The heaviness of it in his hair is both comfort and honor, and he is proud to bow his head beneath that pressure, and proud that his service is acceptable enough that the Commissaire's prick hardens further in his mouth as he breathes through his nose, inhaling the hint of musk and sweat and above it, the scents of polished leather and expensive cologne.

The scent wakes something within him; he thinks of this powerful man walking among others of his caliber, this man who has been appointed by the king and who follows in a line of proud men serving the king and the law in such a capacity, their portraits still decorating the walls of this building. A shiver runs through him; heat curls between his own legs, and he grows yet more careful. Eagerness burns within him. He breathes in deeply, savors the scent of cologne even as he slides his tongue along a vein with distracted pleasure, then laps eagerly at the crown for a first taste of the man's pleasure. The hand tightens slightly in his hair; the Commissaire's prick twitches and smears a trail of salt over his tongue that makes something in Javert's belly constrict as he contemplates that it is honor indeed to be invited to the Commissaire's office, yet alone be given a chance to render further services.

It takes the Commissaire longer to reach completion that it takes M. Thierry, but although the Commissaire is an older man, his white locks and stern features only add to his aura of power. Once hard, he is virile enough, and Javert flushes again and hopes that his enjoyment does not show too much as he sucks on the prick in his mouth with patient devotion. 

A man like Javert should be quiet and do his duty; there is no place for words of gratitude in the ordinary order of things, and Javert would never dare to dream of imposing on such a man. Still, this way, he can show his gratitude, the eagerness of his mouth proving his awareness of the great privilege he has been given, and when Monsieur le Commissaire finally comes in his mouth with a little grunt, pulls away a little too hastily so that some of his spend drips down from Javert's mouth, he remains on his knees and ignores the throbbing of his own prick to carefully put away the softening cock. Javert's touch is reverent as he smoothes back his trousers over him until everything is in order, and only once his superior is neatened does Javert rise to his feet, wiping at his lip with another flush of embarrassment and the hope that his lack of neatness will not be held against him.

When he is dismissed, Javert bows with relief. He retires to his quarters, and there at last he opens his trousers with trembling fingers to spend a few shameful moments jerking on his aching prick while he still tastes the Commissaire's release on his tongue and thinks of the scent of his expensive, tasteful cologne.

#

Javert has his promotion. He is not universally liked. No man who has risen so steadily can be – but he is also not disliked. He is not unfair; men who used to be his comrades and who are now below him in rank think that he is too preoccupied with rules and the letter of the law; they mutter when he will not overlook drunkenness for a shared bottle, or slovenliness for an excuse or a coin. All the same, Javert has learned to navigate this world built for men bigger than him. He sees and looks away when prisoners are forced to pay bribes, observes and then makes himself forget a hundred suggestions for how to root out much of the injustice that characterizes the life of the convicts. Who is he but a guard risen from filth and squalor? It is not his place to offer criticism to a superior. So he watches, and files away notes in his mind, and makes himself forget about them with increasing ease.

M. le Commissaire calls upon him every now and then. He knows of Javert's eagerness to prove himself. It is Javert they send with the reports now, because M. le Commissaire is known to have taken an interest in him. Javert wonders how far he could go with the patronage of such a man.

He knows himself outside of society. There are dreams other men have: a small house, an apartment in Paris, a wife, a handful of children. Javert has never shared those dreams, and cannot imagine himself in such a place. When he thinks of the Commissaire's patronage, he allows himself to think, sometimes, of another man to devote himself to. Paris, maybe. He has never seen the capital, but imagines it to be a place of tall houses and church spires, old buildings and halls with marble floors where men like the Commissaire stride with self-assurance, and men like Javert follow behind them: men who know their place and their duty, and who do their part to keep the order of society intact.

It is M. le Commissaire who first talks to him of the police. Javert is still kneeling, his mouth still full of warm, bitter come which he dutifully swallows before he looks up at the Commissaire, patient to remain on his knees, and suddenly wary after all. 

He may rise in Toulon, but not very far. And as much as he wishes to prove himself to his superiors, here he will always be one guard among many. There is a letter in the Commissaire's hand; Javert ignores it, bold perhaps for the first time, and licks a long, wet swipe up the Commissaire's softening cock again, burying his nose in the man's graying hair at last to eagerly breathe in his musk and sweat, that scent of virile desire that could be lewd, were it not always coupled with the scent of polished leather and expensive cologne. His thoughts are hazy; his pulse throbs warmly between his legs, but as always that ache is of no importance. It can wait until he has returned to his quarters. 

He does not try to hide the pleasure he takes in using his tongue to lick the man clean; Javert has always been eager enough to do his duty, but he hopes that the Commissaire will know that it has been an honor to serve him. The Commissaire has many men beneath him; it is he who decides the fates of the thousands imprisoned here – but Javert, selfish in this at last, hopes that he will stand out and be remembered, just as Javert knows that he will not forget these minutes that are always his favorite part of the week: the peace that can be found in kneeling and doing his duty, and knowing that he has served well when he patiently coaxed the Commissaire to hardness and then a slow release. 

Javert waits until he has cleaned him, his mouth full of his taste and his nose full of his scent, before he draws back at last. Only then does he take the letter, remaining on his knees to read it, and M. le Commissaire brushes a finger against his cheek once, then rests a hand in his hair with paternal affection. It is a sign of his respect to kneel, Javert tells himself, and reads the letter there on his knees, his mouth filled with bitter spend, his belly filled with heat he will indulge later. He brushes his lips against M. le Commissaire's knuckles with lowered eyes before he rises at last and takes the letter with him, grateful and strangely melancholy as he tries to imagine a life outside these walls and the ease of their harsh rules.


	3. M. Chabouillet

He meets M. Chabouillet for the first time not in the bagne, but in the town of Toulon. M. Chabouillet has a room in the finest inn, and there they dine together. Javert is nervous; not so much because of what is at stake – without the patronage of this man he will certainly never rise above the position of a police spy – but more because the wine is very good, and so is the food, and although he has been diligent in his reading, he now fears to give away from whence he came, spoiling this fine dinner and offending this educated man with an accidental, impolite word.

M. Chabouillet is perhaps twenty years his senior. His hair is gray at his temples, his eyes penetrating; when he speaks, his words are calm but certain. This is a man who is used to giving orders and having them obeyed, Javert thinks, and allows himself to imagine, for a moment, the vision of this man walking through the Prefecture in Paris, striding confidently over polished floors, and for the first time that evening, Javert falters.

He has missed what M. Chabouillet has been speaking, and looks up in alarm; M. Chabouillet must have been asking a question, for he is looking at him now, and Javert is unsettled, embarrassment rising within him as he tries to think of how he might make up for such a gaffe. Should he apologize?

M. Chabouillet gives him a small smile, and then nods towards the half-full bottle of wine.

“Come, Javert,” he says, and rises. Javert quickly stands as well. “It is getting late, and perhaps too loud for conversation. Shall we finish the wine in my room, while we talk some more about your desire to serve with the police?”

There is a fire lit in M. Chabouillet's room, and two chairs near it. They sit and drink, and Javert holds himself very straight, uncertain now. M. Chabouillet talks, and in this, Javert fears he will fail now. He is good with the cudgel and quick with the cuffs and has read all he could in Toulon. But he does not know how to listen and smile and be the charming, attentive conversationalist M. Chabouillet must desire. Javert has seen the other men down in the inn: their voices were raised in amusement, they were gesturing and laughing, or bending heads together in earnest discussion. 

Javert on the other hand is used to barking orders at convicts; he prefers silence when dealing with the other guards, and has known his place well enough in the company of M. Thierry and M. le Commissaire. It was not charm or conversation that was desired there, but obedience, and he has always given it gladly.

After a while, M. Chabouillet falls silent. Javert catches himself looking at him in the light of the fire. He is an impressive man, clad in a fine coat, spotless woolen trousers, and polished boots of dark leather. He carries the air of power well; his features are stern, but there is a nobleness to them that makes something within Javert wonder once more what fulfillment could be found in walking behind such a worthy man in places of power. Some men rule over their inferiors with meanness, others with negligence; in M. Chabouillet, Javert sees nothing but alertness and a quiet correctness that appeals to the part within him where he has filled emptiness with the pride in his own irreproachability. 

The silence lingers, and Javert feels embarrassed by his inability to contribute to the conversation. M. Chabouillet empties his glass, and then looks at him with a faint smile, and Javert feels the warmth within him intensify.

“Monsieur le Commissaire tells me you are a dutiful man, worthy of my trust. And eager to serve?”

Javert swallows and licks his lips, then nods. It takes all of his willpower not to drop his eyes to M. Chabouillet's lap, although he wonders if M. Chabouillet knows how eager he truly is.

“Even if you distinguish yourself, it will be long years until you will reach the position you must be imagining. If your heart is set on Paris, Javert, I will have to disappoint you. A posting in the country, maybe a decade of catching thieves and poachers and dealing with irate cart-drivers. After that, if you do well, promotion is a possibility. The Commissaire thinks that you are wasted on the convicts – and I agree with that assessment, Javert.”

“Monsieur,” Javert says quietly, “if you send me into the country for a decade, I will gladly do my duty there, and feel honored that you think me worthy of such a post.” He hesitates. M. Chabouillet has leaned back in his chair, his wineglass held loosely in elegant hands as he watches Javert with quiet contemplation. Javert does not quite know what to do or say - how does one thank such an esteemed man for an offer of patronage?

Eager to serve, he thinks, and nearly flushes at how ridiculously true it is. Serving M. le Commissaire had always been an honor, but something about M. Chabouillet makes him _eager_ indeed. He tries to concentrate on the great opportunity he has been given, the duty he will fulfill – but it is of no use; his body betrays him, and he cannot help but wonder whether M. Chabouillet's prick might be eager for this, too. Javert selfishly hopes that it is large and thick so that it will make his jaw ache as he works for it, and then he puts away his own glass with determination and drops to the floor, his mouth watering even when he raises his hands to M. Chabouillet's trousers in a silent question.

This is a conversation he understands better, he thinks when he is allowed to free M. Chabouillet, to draw forth his prick – beautifully hard already so that the hot ball of pride in his chest swells further, and beautifully big, and he has to stretch his jaw to take it into his mouth, breathing around it with difficulty as he gets his first taste of this man whom he so dearly hopes to impress.

M. Chabouillet is all lavender soap and hints of sweat and overpowering musk. There is something very virile to him, and for long moments, Javert contends himself with sucking on him, eager for that taste, eager to come to know M. Chabouillet in this way. At last, M. Chabouillet's fingers touch his face, and he is made to look up at him – something no one asked before, and it makes heat fill his chest while his own cock pulses with shameful need. M. Chabouillet's fingers are very cool as they remain splayed against his cheek, and that large prick is pushed deep into his mouth, deeper, until he thinks he must choke on it. M. Chabouillet's fingers stroke his cheek against the rising panic; he keeps himself obediently open, learning to allow that prick to make use of his throat at last while M. Chabouillet's kind fingers wipe his shameful tears away.

Once he has learned to allow this, M. Chabouillet's hands move into his hair instead. It has grown to rest in limp waves against his nape; Javert has thought to have it cut shorter, but now that M. Chabouillet begins to trail his fingers through it with obvious enjoyment, he thinks he will save his coin instead of visiting the barber. His throat aches as he swallows around the thick cock, but it is worth the ache for the soft groan he receives in reward. His lips and chin are wet with his spit; Javert is ashamed at his messiness, when he has always pleased so well before, but M. Chabouillet is very patient, and strokes his hair with great gentleness as Javert teaches himself with quiet determination how to serve someone so well endowed. 

When it is enough, at last, M. Chabouillet is kind enough to draw back and spend on his tongue, and Javert swallows it eagerly, strangely aroused by the taste. He keeps some of it on his tongue even when M. Chabouillet finally draws out of his mouth, quietly cherishing the taste. Something about serving M. Chabouillet is different, and he cannot quite say what it is, even when he swallows at last and licks his lips. Then, flushing with self-conscious embarrassment, Javert gives in to this strange need within him and buries his face there between M. Chabouillet's legs once more to clean him with slow strokes of his tongue, savoring every drop he can find, delighting in the scent of sweat and musk and the shamefully exciting virility and power of this man when he presses his nose into the graying curls.

M. Chabouillet's hands are in his hair again, and Javert thinks dizzily that this is no hardship at all, that he would gladly do this man's will every day. He could remain like this for a very long time: his face buried between his legs, on his knees, where he should be, with this powerful man touching him with more gentleness than he deserves.

M. Chabouillet, Javert finds out, is both kind and indulgent, and allows him to remain like that for long enough that M. Chabouillet's prick at last begins to harden again, and Javert shows his gratitude by taking it deep into his sore throat once more, looking up at M. Chabouillet from eyes that are dark with eager adoration even as he cannot breath when he forces his aching throat to serve in the manner this man deserves.


	4. M. Madeleine

Montreuil-sur-Mer is, just as M. Chabouillet warned him, the sort of town where there is little to do to distinguish himself. Petty crime, drunkards, prostitutes, the occasional brawl. It is not very exciting, but it is better than Toulon, where every day passes the same way, and where even a guard who distinguishes himself cannot go far.

M. Chabouillet, his patron, sends the occasional letter, and Javert is proud to know that if M. Chabouillet asks questions about him, his superiors will give him no reason to be ashamed of his choice – but the fact remains that M. Chabouillet is a busy man, an important man, and if Javert might one day find himself walking behind him through great, echoing halls of marble, then that is a great many days in the future.

His work keeps him busy. There is no rest for a police spy, and he is paid little for long hours, but he has his small chamber, a spare set of clothes, and enough coin left for the occasional pinch of snuff. Sometimes, when he is not too tired, he lies in his bed after he comes home and rests his hand on his prick, and puts his fingers in his mouth. He thinks of the scent of M. Chabouillet and the taste of him as he sucks on them, and the way his fingers trail through his hair. His hair is growing longer now, and he has started to tie it back with a ribbon into a neat queue. He thinks it makes him look more severe, and thus, it is a practical choice given the sort of people he is forced to interact with.

The first time Javert is forced to visit the mayor, he has already heard enough about him to feel a sense of unease, which in turn makes him frown at himself. Who is he to think ill of a magistrate? But the unease remains, and when he faces the man at last, it only grows stronger. 

Javert feels a certain impatience with him, even before they are forced to interact. A pious man, they say, giving alms to any and all; well, it is not Javert's concern how his superiors spend their coin! But this man, though magistrate, does not seem capable of telling right from wrong; this man argues for the vagabond and the thief and the prostitute, while Javert has to clench his teeth to keep in heated words about what ill comes from coddling the criminal class.

Still, Javert knows his place, and so he stays silent after the first rebuke, reeling with that strange, new realization that here, for the first time, is a superior displeased with his work. Here is a superior who does not appreciate his diligence, his devotion to his duty, his eagerness to see a task done if that is what better men ask of him. Javert feels out of his depth – has he done wrong? He has made a point of carefully obeying each and every written and unwritten rule that has been shown to him ever since he entered his position in Toulon. No superior has ever been displeased with him. To serve this mayor instead of the Commissaire should not make a difference.

He looks at M. Madeleine, studying him from eyes that he fears might give away his distress. The man does not even look at him; Javert wishes fervently that M. Madeleine would at least let him know if he has displeased, and would show him how to make up for his failings.

M. Madeleine has turned his face away from him to study a ledger after the small argument Javert's respectful protest provoked. Javert feels unsettled, as if the world has shifted unexpectedly beneath his feet. Is he to leave now with the knowledge that he has failed, that he has displeased this man who has been appointed magistrate and so does not need to give a mere police spy reasons for his actions? His mouth is dry; he longs for nothing more than to leave the presence of this troubling man, and yet there is a despair rising within him at the thought that M. Madeleine might complain about his devotion to his duty, that his superiors might know that his conduct has not been satisfactorily, that M. Chabouillet's trust in him might have been misplaced...

He takes a careful step forward, then another. M. Madeleine is distracted by his letters; Javert goes to his knees, his mind carefully blank as he lightly rests a hand on M. Madeleine's thighs, silently praying that he will be allowed to make reparations for what offense he might have unwittingly given.

M. Madeleine breathes in sharply at the touch; Javert licks his lips, wonders if he will be made to beg for the privilege, knowing that he would, and afterwards thank the man for the honor – and then, abruptly, M. Madeleine stands.

Javert swallows thickly. He can see M. Madeleine's hands clench into fists. He does not dare to look up. Has he given too much offense to be allowed such familiarity? The mere thought is sobering; he shivers a little and, daring, leans forward, not quite as bold as to open M. Madeleine's trousers, but bold enough to show his subservience by pressing a kiss to where the man's prick rests beneath his trousers. The shape of it is pleasingly large and warm beneath his lips; he resist the urge to rub his cheek against it to find out the full size of him, but M. Madeleine is hardening a little, and to feel that is relief enough. Wherever he went wrong, he has not given too much offense to be deemed unworthy even of such a thing.

His mouth is watering; he swallows, then brushes his lips respectfully against the bulge again. He aches for it suddenly, wants to lick and to mouth at the fabric until it is so thoroughly damp that he can see the shape of M. Madeleine's cock through it. He reins himself in sharply; it would not do to leave a superior with damp trousers, but why will M. Madeleine not allow him to take him into his mouth, to use Javert as what he is: his inferior, who desires to please, who might not understand how M. Madeleine rules his town, but who would be eager to make reparations in what small ways he can?

How good it has always been to feel M. Chabouillet's fingers in his hair, who never left him wanting for direction. Yes, M. Chabouillet was generous indeed, and again Javert thinks, half in despair now, that if such a man was content with his service, certainly M. Madeleine cannot find him wanting?

He curls his fingers against his trousers, uncertainty warring within him with the need to show his respect and remorse for whatever offense he has given. Then, daring once more, he reaches out, his fingers trembling a little as they move to open M. Madeleine's trousers, his eyes firmly trained on the large shape that presses now with the full weight of a man's potent insistence against the fine wool. Javert swallows as he thinks of the weight of it on his tongue, of, perhaps, M. Madeleine's strangely rough hands in his hair as he is allowed to prove his willingness to do as he is bid. Any moment now, it will be revealed to him, the thick shape, the warm flesh that will fill his mouth, and his longing to lose himself in the act is so great that it comes as an utter surprise when M. Madeleine makes a soft, shocked sound and steps back.

“Javert!” he says and stares at him, and, mute now with dismay, Javert looks up at him from his knees.

“Monsieur, have I given too much offense to be allowed--?” Javert does not quite know what he is saying, or how to ask for this. This thing is natural; it has never been put into words before, and a sort of rage begins to twist within him at the thought that this man refuses to follow the rules that govern these things. It is all very easy: a superior orders; an inferior serves. Javert, who has been an inferior of great man all of his life, has learned these rules well and lived by them. How now does this man dare upset the order of things?

“Offense?” M. Madeleine's eyes are wide; but still, Javert thinks, staring now at the man's heavy prick in silent accusation, still M. Madeleine's body knows how these things go. It is very easy; Javert does not understand why he has to make such a fuss. Oh, it is all very well for this man to look at him with shocked disgust when they both can see very clearly that M. Madeleine's body understands the order of these things just as well as Javert does.

“Please, get up, Javert,” M. Madeleine says, and Javert obeys quietly.

This, he now feels with a sudden tension within, this is wrong. Yes, something is very wrong here. What man is this who sits at this desk and signs letters and is greeted with respect by any man in this town, and who would yet refuse this thing Javert offered? It is not even an offer, it is something that just _is_ , and all it would have taken is for M. Madeleine to sit still and allow Javert to draw forth his prick, and take this pleasure with the silent understanding that there is nothing more remarkable to accepting Javert's service than there is to accepting his letters in the morning, or a glass of wine at dinner. Men like M. Madeleine are used to indulgences, and what more is there to this thing than that most basic indulgence of the body's needs?

But now, Javert thinks as he stands, his face flushed with sudden, shamed heat, now that M. Madeleine chose to slap away this offered comfort, he has turned it into something else – not a simple, unremarkable act of servitude, but something that made M. Madeleine back away from him, and look at him as though it is Javert who is mad and has forgotten himself.

And what sort of place is this where the mayor worries about the decorum of the police spy? What magistrate is this who would deny his own comfort and look at him as thought it was Javert who had given offense: not by failing to please, but by trying to please in the first place?

They say that the mayor is a religious man, but, Javert thinks viciously as he looks at where the man's prick still presses against his trousers with a full heaviness which gives the lie to that claim, it is only too obvious that it is not piety that is at work here. No, this man is no saint, and although he chooses to act the role now, pretending that Javert was wrong to offer, Javert is armed with the memory of men better than M. Madeleine, greater than M. Madeleine. His service was acceptable to the Commissaire, and to M. Chabouillet, who is secretary to the Préfet; it cannot be Javert who is at fault here.

And yet! To claim that it is M. Madeleine who is at fault, if only in Javert's own deliberation – that is impossible as well. Javert grinds his teeth and keeps his eyes averted – not from shame, he tells himself, although something twists painful and hot in his stomach as his eyes once more slide past that bulge which he has felt warm and hard against his lips. Instead, he makes himself remember the ease of being with M. Chabouillet, whose wishes he has fulfilled without the need to ever put them into words, and who has been pleased enough with his conduct to arrange for him to fill the post of inspector in this town.

No, the fault was not his own, and if he misunderstood, then perhaps because something about M. Madeleine was at fault. Has not M. Madeleine behaved quite singularly? He is a private man, they say of him, a pious man, a philanthropist much given to charity – and yet that is all well and good, but this man seems to place himself below those which society has placed below him. This man, who would uphold the poor, whom Javert has often heard demand clemency for a thief, who shows little pride in his accomplishments and even less pride in the honor the king himself has sought to bestow on him – this man makes something within Javert twist and snarl, like a dog who has found a trail of the familiar scent of the hare.

Well then, Javert decides, perhaps it is time to listen to what his sense of what is good and right tells him. Something about this man is wrong – something does not fit, as though the wolf has donned the sheep's clothing. And yet, how can he suspect a superior? 

It is maddening, and now more than ever he wishes for the guidance of M. Chabouillet. For a moment he entertains the thought of giving voice to his suspicions in a letter. But no; he cannot presume so. M. Chabouillet is a busy man, and an important one; moreover what proof does Javert have for his suspicions? Imagine M. Chabouillet treating him as M. Madeleine has done! Imagine to kneel before that worthy man, and to be turned aside instead of rewarded with that brief touch of satisfaction at his work that so far he has never failed to elicit!

Perhaps, he allows himself to think as he leaves the mayor's room thoroughly shamed and chastised, perhaps M. Chabouillet would believe him. Perhaps he would come to uncover whatever it is that is at work here, rewarding Javert with a word of praise for his diligence, and allowing him the honor of proving his devotion to his duty once more on his knees, where he belongs.

But these are idle fancies. The secretary of the Préfet is where he belongs, in Paris, and Javert cannot send letters like a jealous mistress.

Javert flushes at his own thought. No, that is hardly what this is. He cannot send letters like a schoolboy to his father: there, that fits better. It is Javert after all who is the word of the law here; M. Chabouillet trusts him to do his work well, and that is what he will do. 

He keeps his mind carefully blank as he slips his hand up beneath his nightshirt later, when it is dark outside and he has snuffed out his candle. He thinks of M. Chabouillet's hand in his hair. He thinks of the way M. Chabouillet looked when he allowed Javert to serve him. He thinks of the way M. Chabouillet praised him, thinks of the way M. Chabouillet could also make use of him, could...

When he tightens his hand with a soft groan, he thinks of himself bent over a table, serving in whatever way is asked of him: those hands that have touched his hair with such kindness now closing around his hips as he is spread and used, M. Chabouillet hard and large and eager to take his pleasure.

It is only when Javert thrusts up into his fist with despairing need that the image in his mind changes: the hands that hold him open are rough, and the man who uses him does not speak, nor touch his hair with kindness, but simply pulls out to look at Javert bent over his desk, his arse reddened and sore and dripping with his spend.

“That's what you deserve, Javert,” the mayor says, and Javert has to bite hard into his fist to muffle a cry as his body convulses with obscene pleasure.


	5. M. Gisquet

Paris is a relief after Montreuil-sur-Mer, where for too long, he suffered from that mingled guilt over suspecting one the state set as his superior, and fearing that if he was wrong in his suspicions, he failed a man who had every right to be pleased by him.

Paris means a return to a world where the law governs, where there is right and wrong, where there are superiors that expect his service, and are pleased to receive it. Javert is nearly embarrassed by how much this thing in his breast swells when M. Chabouillet calls him into his office and praises him for his work in uncovering the truth about M. Madeleine.

When Javert sleeps at night, after a day's hard work, he makes himself linger on thoughts of M. Chabouillet's hand gentle against his cheek. Sometimes he wakes to his belly wet with his spend and his hands cramped into the sheets as though he wishes to tear free from something that binds him. There is a faint memory of a strong man, of rough hands taking an obedience from him he had desired to give willingly – but those are dreams, and of no consequence, and they slip from his mind even before he stands to wash away the traces of his body's disobedience.

There is no need to linger on such nightmares. Paris keeps him busy. And, perhaps in an attempt to make up for disbelieving Javert's first suspicions of M. Madeleine – although Javert would be eager to reassure him that no apologies are needed, and that M. Chabouillet was right to act as he did, considering the arrest of Champmathieu and the testimony of the convicts – M. Chabouillet desires his company more often now. Javert comes to report on criminals that they are close to catching; in turn he is supplied with more cases that will raise both Javert and M. Chabouillet in the esteem of those M. Chabouillet serves.

It is long year after Javert has arrived in Paris that he makes M. Gisquet's acquaintance. It is 1831, and M. Gisquet has been named Préfet of the police; Javert thinks dimly that a man like him has no place to stand in the office of the Préfet, but once more that strange almost-pride within his chest expands and fills him until it seems perfectly easy to go to his knees before M. Chabouillet when M. Chabouillet bids him to do so, and to uncover his prick with reverent hands and draw him into his mouth while M. Chabouillet's hand touches his hair with pleased affection. He has never minded the kneeling, and to kneel before a worthy man such as M. Chabouillet is an honor. 

Still, it is different to do so with M. Gisquet's eyes on him. To do this, a harmless, private service rendered behind closed doors for no other reason because it pleases a superior is one thing. After it is done, he can stand, and walk home, and lock his door and lie down in his bed and give himself ease with his own hand, and go to work the next morning as eager as ever to see justice dealt on the streets of Paris.

But now, with M. Gisquet's eyes watching him, it becomes a different thing. Now Javert flushes with self-consciousness, imagining how he must look like to the Préfet, wondering what the Préfet might think of him. Being allowed to perform such a private service for M. Chabouillet has always filled him with a humble pride: the sort of pride a dog would feel who is given a place at his master's feet after the successful hunt, while the touch of a powerful hand conveys his master's affection.

Now, with M. Gisquet's eyes on him, it is harder to allow himself to slide into that state of near-ecstasy; he is not loyal guard-dog to M. Gisquet, but must seem grotesque on his knees.

Despite his fears, he does his duty; he knows how to please M. Chabouillet well, and for a moment – when M. Chabouillet spends in his mouth, fingers trembling against his cheek as Javert looks up at him with patient devotion, trembling himself at the rush of powerful gratitude that runs through him as he swallows all M. Chabouillet has to give – it is as it has always been, and he is quietly grateful for this man's patronage and trust.

Then there is a sound as M. Gisquet pushes his chair back, and when Javert looks up, blood rushes into his cheeks once more while his own prick throbs insistently between his legs. M. Gisquet has been watching him, as he has feared; the humiliation of it makes him nearly dizzy, but still he remains on his knees. Javert is the Préfet's just as he is M. Chabouillet's creature. If censure awaits now for his conduct, he will bear that as his due.

M. Gisquet beckons for him to come closer. There is a strange sort of relief in raising his eyes to his lap and seeing the way his trousers stretch over his arousal. M. Gisquet's hand rests on his thigh; now it slides closer, and Javert watches, breathless, as M. Gisquet unabashedly touches himself, slowly rubbing over that bulge with the heel of his hand while Javert stares, and flushes, swallowing what traces of M. Chabouillet's spend remain on his tongue while M. Gisquet laughs softly. It is a sound that sends a different wave of heat through Javert. And yet, he is uncertain – he _wants_ , and it seems that M. Gisquet is only too happy to offer, but can he, Javert, truly do such a thing--

He finds that he can. No matter how much the humiliation might burn in the back of his mind, the need that burns between his legs is even worse, and so he moves closer. Obediently, he remains on his knees, the loyal dog these men deserve, until he kneels before M. Gisquet. The scent of his arousal and the expensive perfume he can smell faint traces of is overwhelming; he breathes deeply, and it makes him as dizzy as a bottle of brandy would.

“Monsieur,” he says, nearly pleading, when he kneels before the bulge that is awaiting him there and that is denied him all the same as M. Gisquet strokes himself with slow, thoughtful touches while he watches him. 

Javert feels the heat that burns on his cheeks and fears that his eyes might give too much away: the heat within him, and worse. He cannot raise his eyes, but M. Gisquet is happy to have him watch as he slowly drags his thumb across where his cock stretches beneath his trousers, drawing it out. M. Gisquet seems perfectly calm; Javert, on the other hand, clenches his hands on the floor and feels out of his depth, useless. He has little to offer. It seems too high an honor to be even in the presence of his man, and he fears suddenly that nothing he has to give will be enough.

He kneels before M. Gisquet, watching that hypnotizing motion of the man's hand until his muscles ache from how tense he holds himself; M. Gisquet moves to open his trousers at last, and a shudder runs through Javert when he realizes that the soft sound he hears is a whimper that has escaped his own lips. He nearly cringes; how pathetic he must seem to M. le Préfet! But then, at last, M. Gisquet opens his trousers, and Javert does not even try to hide his eagerness as he leans forward in relief.

It is familiar, of course; it is not so different to serving M. Chabouillet – and that thought once more brings the awareness that M. Chabouillet is watching him, is witnessing this. The shame of it curdles in his stomach while a strange thrill runs up his spine, hot and sharp. He is very hard himself, and even as he carefully flattens his tongue against M. Gisquet's prick, learning the shape and the taste of him, he thinks of M. Gisquet's eyes on him, of M. Chabouillet's gaze lingering as well. By now it has to be obvious to both of them what a shameful pleasure his own body takes in his service.

He makes a muffled sound around M. Gisquet's prick. The Préfet's hand is in his hair, tightening until it hurts, pulling him closer until he swallows desperately around the full length of him, and even as his chest aches for breath he does his duty. The lack of air makes him dizzy; he can feel tears gather in the corners of his eyes, M. Gisquet's hand tightens even more in his hair, and the sharpness of the pain makes his prick swell until Javert thinks it will burst. He can not think; he can only suck on M. Gisquet's cock, remembering that duty even when all other thought has fled, and his hand is between his legs now, rubbing desperately. Any moment now, any moment something will shatter, this ache in his chest will burst, something will--

He is pushed back, and a hand hits his face, hard. He reels at the slap, spit drooling from his aching mouth as he looks up at M. Gisquet from blurry eyes.

“I did not tell you to touch yourself,” M. Gisquet says. His lips are a hard line, his eyes are cold, and Javert wants to cower like a dog. Instead he moves closer again, his hands still curled helplessly against the floor as he parts his lips and allows the wet prick to slide inside. His cheek throbs with heat; the ache flares until it pulses in time with the ache between his legs, and then M. Gisquet's hand is in his hair again to hold him in place. M. Gisquet's prick fills his throat, cutting off his air as it slides back and forth over his tongue while Javert wants to whine like the dog he is and finds that he cannot. Then M. Gisquet moves his leg; his foot is clad in a fine, polished boot of black leather, and the heavy sole of it now comes to rest between Javert's legs, pressing down on his shamefully swollen flesh with terrible precision while Javert swallows around M. Gisquet, dizzy both from the lack of air and the hot pulse of pain that throbs through his body with every beat of his heart.

Javert does not want it to stop. He does not resist, not even when M. Gisquet's boot presses down harder, crushing him between the hard sole and his tense thigh, not when black spots appear before his eyes and he tries to gasp for breath and can only feel that hard prick pushing in deeper.

His entire chest is a massive, black ache from the need for air, and still he does not resist. The world seems reduced to the howling of his pulse in his ears, the sluggish beating of his heart in his ribcage like a church bell that threatens to shatter – soon, he thinks, feeling the wiry hair of M. Gisquet against his lips as the man uses his throat without care, soon; he will shatter rather than abandon his post...

And then it is done. Hot spurts of spend run down his parched, aching throat; M. Gisquet pulls back and the rush of air hits him and makes him wheeze and choke, so that M. le Préfet's spend is dripping from his lips. It stains the floor of fine, dark mahogany; it stains M. Gisquet's boots as well, and he does not flinch when the Préfet's hand lashes out this time, knowing that he deserves worse. The soreness between his legs is overwhelming, almost worse than the soreness of his throat, and although he does not dare to fail M. Gisquet again, he thinks he would do nearly anything to be allowed to touch himself – and perhaps, it might be worth it just to feel M. Gisquet's boot put him in his place, or feel the heat of another slap rush through him until it seems as if every pulse of his heartbeat sends fire through his veins...

M. Gisquet's hand in his hair is rough as his face is pressed to the floor like a dog.

“Look at what you have done,” M. Gisquet says, and below the disdain, there is a heavy, dark breathlessness that sends another thrill through Javert. He did that, Javert thinks even as he parts his swollen lips to press his tongue to the floor. He did that: he made M. le Préfet breathless. 

Javert licks slowly, carefully, cleaning up every spot of obscene white on the floor. He can feel the heat of his own breath, and the sounds he makes as he breathes are shamefully loud in his ears. Still he licks obediently, while above him M. Gisquet is breathing just as heavily. 

Javert swallows before he dares to press his bruised lips to M. Gisquet's boot. His breath fogs the leather; again he laps neatly at every spot he can find, and now every breath threatens to turn into a moan while his tongue slides slowly, reverently, over lines and seams, the leather warm beneath his tongue.

Where he has licked, the boot shines with his spit. The taste on his tongue is bitter and heavy, and again he presses his tongue carefully to the leather, licking a long, hot stripe of subservience to M. le Préfet's ankle, tasting a hint of acrid dust and the faint musk of horse hide. M. Gisquet does not speak now, but Javert imagines him watching. Reverently, he presses his tongue into an indentation, licks along decorative whorls until they, too, gleam black and slick, and every heartbeat shudders through him like the tolling of a bell, aching so exquisitely between his legs that he dares not imagine what it will be like to strip, once he is alone in his chamber, to press his fingers to what bruises M. Gisquet's boot might have left, to send himself to bed and allow no thoughts but those of M. Gisquet's hand chastising him, and no touch save to the bruises his superior has left.

He clenches his fingers. It is nearly enough: the pain, and the thought that there might be marks on his body. He presses his mouth to M. Gisquet's other boot, allowing his tongue to rasp over the leather, savoring a hint of bitter dust and then, another salty splash of the Préfet's semen. Javert makes a rough sound; it aches in his throat, comes out raspy and breathless, and he shudders as he wonders if they know how very much he wants this opportunity to show his devotion, this chance to serve better men.

Javert cannot find words to describe this feeling even to himself: to press his mouth to M. Gisquet's boot, to lick at it like the lowly creature he is, to know that M. Chabouillet is watching him-- 

Javert does not dare to raise his face to see what M. Chabouillet is thinking, but for a moment he allows himself to think of M. Chabouillet taking him to his apartment afterwards, of kneeling at his feet and licking the dust of the streets from _his_ boots, of resting his head on M. Chabouillet's knee once his master is satisfied, lapping at his fingers while M. Chabouillet strokes his hair again, rewarding Javert with his affection as a man would reward a favorite dog...

It is too much; Javert tenses and yet cannot stop the pleasure that rolls through him like a terrible wave that shatters all that dares to stand in its way. He groans in miserable ecstasy, pants his illicit pleasure against the fine leather -- and then a hand harshly pulls him up by his hair, and he is slapped again, and again, hot pain blooming on his cheeks even as his body shudders through the last waves of his orgasm in misery, final, weak spurts of his spend soaking into his trousers even as the back of M. Gisquet's hand delivers its discipline.

"Teach your dog some manners, Chabouillet," the Préfet says, and Javert can only produce a little whine when fingers prod at his swollen, bleeding lip. He licks at them, eager to prove himself the dog a man such as this deserves, and M. Gisquet laughs when Javert presses his tongue to his fingertips, lapping his own blood from them.

"That's what happens if you don't geld a creature like this." M. Gisquet's boot prods lightly where Javert's softening cock still twitches with the last tremors of pleasure. Javert dares not move. He can only groan deep in his throat when the pressure increases once more until it sends red-hot waves of agony through his body, and he licks at M. Gisquet's fingertips again, exhaling another whine, thinks of M. Chabouillet watching this -- thinks of M. Chabouillet pulling down his trousers to chastise him in other ways, to sodomize him on the Préfet's desk while M. Gisquet watches...

It is too much; he cannot come again, but the mingled ecstasy and agony that courses through him washes over him with such force that for a moment, everything recedes. He cannot think. He cannot breathe; he can only kneel and press his tongue to the hand of the man who is hurting him, offering his devotion and his service like the lowly beast he is, and then, at last, M. Gisquet laughs breathlessly and pushes him back.

"Well, Chabouillet. Bring your creature along another time. I might be interested in seeing if he will be better behaved in the future."

Chabouillet makes an amused sound, but there is also the rustle of paper, and then M. Chabouillet begins to talk of rumors about insurgents meeting in a wine-shop. Javert is not quite certain what is expected of him now -- but then fingers prod once more at his bruised lip, and he remains kneeling, calm and obedient, and listens to M. Chabouillet's report while M. Gisquet listens at well and absentmindedly fingers the bruises his hands have left. It is, Javert decides dizzily when fingers find a small cut and play with it until it pulses with a sweet, hot pain, reward enough. By the time M. Chabouillet is finished half an hour later, Javert is intimately aware of all the marks M. Gisquet has left on him, feeling them throb and send out waves of heat that make him shiver. It is very nearly a caress; it is painful and exquisite, and Javert bends his head over his hand to kiss the Préfet's fingers in devotion before they leave, his bruised cock still chafing against the damp wool of his trousers with every step.


	6. Jean Valjean

He has shattered apart into a thousand pieces, and patient, gentle Valjean has put him back together.

Javert cannot fathom how the man can even bear to touch him. Sometimes he still thinks of that one day in Montreuil, when everything seemed so simple to him, when there were no choices but a straight road to walk. He thinks of how he offered himself, and how he was denied for the first time, and how even then Valjean had refused to do something any other man would have done: not only to take pleasure from Javert's mouth, but also take revenge.

Later, once more, Valjean has refused to take revenge and denied Javert his death. Instead, he nursed him back to health, and Javert, heart-broken, who held no memory more beloved than that of M. Chabouillet patiently stroking his hair, found himself shattering into pieces once more when Valjean gave him a bed and gave him company, fed him and brought him tea and read to him. And now that memory of M. Chabouillet touching him with gentleness will no longer come when Javert rolls around in his bed at night, aching for the release that he always used to find when he thought of M. Chabouillet's cock in his mouth and his hand in his hair.

It is no use. His thoughts scatter, and he thinks of Valjean's quiet smile, and of the touch of his hand when he makes certain that Javert is well. Javert's prick twitches against his stomach in frustration as Javert remembers how once, he pressed his lips to the outline of Valjean's cock, and then was pushed away; he turns again and presses his face into his pillow in frustration, waiting for his prick to reluctantly soften.

#

It takes months until Javert can no longer bear it. He lowers himself to his knees again; he prays to the God who by all rights should deny him, not only for the sinfulness of what Javert desires, but also because Javert deserves punishment instead of a reward – but, he thinks fervently as he sinks to the floor and presses his lips to Valjean's prick in quiet despair, if he can only have this one thing he will never think an unkind thought again, will go with Valjean to give alms, will...

Valjean draws in a shocked breath, and Javert wants to weep in frustration, furious with himself as he is gently pushed away.

“Javert, what--” Valjean sounds upset, and Javert cannot bear it.

He runs. They do not talk for a month. At night, Javert lies awake and works his aching prick to soreness and thinks of how M. Gisquet would punish him for his conduct since the barricade, thinks of M. Chabouillet watching as M. Gisquet hurts him, thinks again of how he licked M. Gisquet's boots and comes in a quick, shameful climax that leaves him sick to his stomach. It is no wonder Valjean has no use for him. Valjean is a good man. M. Gisquet is not.

Even thinking such insubordination makes him feel queasy.

#

It is unbearable. Valjean will kiss him; Valjean will wind his arm around his shoulders and draw him close; Valjean will allow him to rest against him at night, to touch the wiry hair on his chest with careful fingers, to fall asleep to the beating of a strong heart beneath the questing shape of his hand.

But Valjean will not allow him to put his mouth on him, and Javert is nearly insane with need – both ashamed of how much he wants it, and mortified that maybe Valjean can guess: that Valjean will know how often he has knelt and allowed himself to be used and thought nothing of it.

It would not be nothing with Valjean. Javert dreams of it often now, that day in Montreuil, the way he could feel Valjean's prick harden beneath the fabric; it nearly makes him weep with frustration, but he cannot help but think of it and imagine how Valjean's prick would look like, how he would taste like, how he would feel on his tongue. And then comes the guilt, because Valjean does not belong among those men he used to esteem.

It is hard to think back now. His most cherished memories frighten him. He cannot think about it; it is easier to simply not think.

When one day, Valjean loses his patience with him and presses him carefully into the mattress with those strong, gentle hands that make Javert's skin shudder as though gentleness were something that wounds, Javert once more resolves not to think. There is only the immediate: the pleasure of Valjean's hard body against his own, the strange, ticklish softness of the copious hair on his chest, the sensation of trailing his fingers through it, the way his palm tingles even when he lifts his hand away afterward.

The here and now is comprised of simple things. Valjean's mouth curves too hot and too careful against his skin. The air he inhales is never enough to fill his lungs. His breathing is so loud that he is afraid Valjean might be disturbed by his body's reaction to him, or by the way he cannot control this, when Javert had always been in control of himself before. Again, desperate, Javert thinks of how much easier it would be if Valjean would let him kneel and suck him – Javert would know how to behave then, how to control this monster in his chest that wants to tear him open from within, he would not want to selfishly take but would give, would serve--

Then Valjean's mouth slides down over him, slow, careful, but determined, and Javert arches up and makes a desperate sound.

“Valjean!” It escapes as a moan, and although it is also a plea, it is not one Valjean heeds, for he does not release Javert. Instead, he keeps his cock trapped in the unbearable heat of his mouth, and Javert shivers, moans again, tosses his head, his hands grasping the sheets to keep from doing what he so desperately wants, from gripping Valjean's hair and pulling him back because Valjean should not... Because Javert should not...

“It is all right,” Valjean says once it is over. Javert wants to bury his face in his hands. He is ashamed; he has not lasted past that first long, slow lick over the sensitive tip of his cock, too aware of what it felt like to lick there, to taste, and too overwhelmed by what it felt like to have this thing done to him.

It is shameful to be unable to last for more than a few heartbeats, but he is almost relieved that it is over.

#

Valjean does it again the following night. Again Javert trembles, and says “Please,” and what he means is _Please, stop_ , and _please, I do not deserve it_ , and Valjean licks him relentlessly to hardness so that Javert has to bury his face in his hands again and still comes scant heartbeats later.

#

Javert's skin is slick with sweat. The muscles of his belly constrict. He moans and arches, and Valjean's strong hands that hold his hips allow him to writhe. Javert groans at the way his swollen cock slides over Valjean's tongue so easily.

The air in their bedroom is too hot. He has writhed so much that the blanket is a tangled heap on the floor, and he is naked on the bed, and if he would but open his eyes he could see himself in the mirror, could watch even as Valjean's generous mouth slides down over his red, aching flesh. Valjean's tongue is tormenting all the sensitive places he has found out during the past few weeks: the spots that make Javert tremble and moan and lie still with breathless anticipation for the climax Valjean's mouth will draw at last from him, once Javert has tried to withstand the pleasure for as long as he can.

He thinks it is not quite so embarrassing anymore, the quickness with which he finds release, but he also finds that time slides away from him when they come together like this. The pleasure is too intense for regret in any case. When Valjean is done with him, he is too weak for protest or even shame. Valjean spreads reassurance across his belly with little kisses, and almost Javert dares to wonder if he will--

But then Valjean settles down by his side, and takes himself in hand, and Javert, having learned his lesson about offering a service that is always rebuked with relentless gentleness, presses tired, trembling fingers to his face instead, touching those swollen lips with uncertainty and wonder even as Valjean strokes himself to a quick release. _Please,_ Javert thinks again when Valjean's mouth falls slack beneath his questioning fingers, and this time, he is not even certain himself what it is he means.

#

Javert gasps for breath. Once more he is slick with sweat, bared beneath Valjean's fingers that scald him with their touch that is always loving, that draws forth sounds from his throat that might once have embarrassed him. But now that old Javert is dead, and the new Javert has learned to endure pleasure and kindness as it is offered, learning to allow Valjean to wrap him in love until even the frightened, empty part of him that had once eagerly embraced the heat of a slap is filled by Valjean's warmth instead, and patiently seduced to relax into trust.

Valjean touches his cheek, and Javert allows himself a moan as his hand slides into his hair. Valjean's lips brush his mouth, just as Valjean's fingers brush against his prick that thrusts forward eagerly; his body has learned to beg long before Javert could.

He exhales when the rough, calloused pad of a finger brushes against the sensitive tip where he is wet already from the beads of slickness that Valjean's patient touch has coaxed forth. Javert cannot say how long they have lain here side by side, but it has been long enough that his nerves have been teased into exquisite torment. It is only the long, patient tutelage of Valjean's fingers that now enables him to keep from spilling himself, although the pulse between his legs throbs heavily, his balls tight and aching for the release Valjean will grant him later rather than sooner.

"Please," he begs as Valjean's fingers lightly curl around him, and only then does he realize what he has said, and what he has meant by it.

"Please," he says again, as much to reassure himself that he has meant as Valjean, and licks his lips, turning his head to nuzzle Valjean's palm. "Please. Your mouth – or whatever you want. Just touch me. Please."

"My mouth?" Valjean's fingers trail ever so lightly up the swollen shaft, and Javert shivers as he thinks of Valjean's tongue lapping there at the slit, sucking on him until it is unbearable and release grows so overwhelming that it feels like losing consciousness.

"God, yes. Please!" Javert's voice is hoarse with desperation, and Valjean does not even laugh at him or say anything at all to give away how laughable it is that it took Javert so long to say these words, when he has felt Valjean's mouth on him so many times already.

"Please," he says again when Valjean bends to his task, and then all words are gone. There is nothing but sensation, the rise of fire in his veins, and the strain of his thighs as he tenses and tries to make it last for as long as he can.

He regains his ability to think long moments later, when Valjean slowly licks smears of spend from his softening cock. When Valjean's mouth continues to press kisses to his thighs, they fall apart easily, and Javert sighs, warm and content as Valjean nuzzles at his skin and then works him open, touching him from the inside until Javert is loose and relaxed and the only ache he feels is that of his need for Valjean.

It is good, he thinks dizzily as he arches and runs his fingers down Valjean's sweat-slick, uneven back. The pressure of his cock, the warmth of him... It is good, and he draws his face close to press blind, overwhelmed kisses to it as he listens to Valjean's uneven, labored breathing as Valjean works towards his own pleasure, Javert's body yielding to it easily enough.

"Please," Valjean gasps at last, and Javert strokes his face, touches his lips, feels them go slack as pleasure builds, “Please!" Javert kisses him and holds him, caressing him even as Valjean's body tenses and shudders as Valjean is overtaken by pleasure.

When they rest against each other later, Javert runs his fingers through the hair on Valjean's chest. Beneath it, his body is firm and strong. Javert wants to press his lips to it, but is too content to move even a fraction. Now that the fire of his need has cooled, he is almost embarrassed to think of how he has begged. Most importantly, he wonders if now that Valjean has made him beg for it, the delightful torment will stop.

He thinks again of M. Gisquet. He thinks that perhaps one day, he will tell Valjean about all of that, and wonders if he can bear Valjean knowing. He thinks again of how once, he knelt in Montreuil-sur-Mer, and pressed his lips in fevered devotion to the prick that he has taken into his own body tonight.

“What are you thinking of? You're frowning. In bed,” Valjean says, and his voice is quietly amused. Well, let the man be amused, he has won a battle today, Javert thinks, and then, he decides to be daring.

“How much I wanted you in my mouth in Montreuil,” he says, and flushes at his own words. “Do you think you will ever let me?”

Valjean is chuckling, and that is good; he hears him laugh so rarely. Even if he would rather not hear Valjean laughing at him, it is not as though he does not deserve it.

“Javert,” Valjean says softly and draws him close, fingers trailing through his hair, seducing Javert into content relaxation. “Have I not armed you to do just that? If that is what you want, I believe you know now how to make me ask for that.”

Javert flushes again as he imagines Valjean begging. No one has ever begged. Others have ordered – but no one has ever pleaded. Not until Valjean today. He imagines himself atop Valjean later, taking something that will be given freely, generously.

“Yes,” he says and closes his eyes, feeling those gentle fingers still trailing through his hair. “Yes. I believe I know how.”


End file.
